Out Of The Loop
by Mylinae
Summary: The Captain collapses, and an old acquaintance shows up, but the incidents are not related in the manner in which one might suspect . . . [post-Endgame, spoilers all-around]
1. Starfleet Issue

Out Of The Loop

  
  


Disclaimer: The characters, the ship, the technobabble and all things 24th century belong to Paramount. The rest is _mine_, so hands off.

  
  


Note to the hopeful (if you exist): this is not in any way linked to my other story Stopgap Measures. This is yet another post-Voyager story that was rattling around in my brain, and it won't leave me alone until I write it down. Hope you like it anyhow!

  
  


_Chapter One_

_"Starfleet Issue"_

  
  


_**Kathryn Janeway writes--**_

  
  


_I still play the part of the Captain._

_Even though so much has changed, even though so much is gone and we are far from where we were, they still look at me with that hope in their eyes - sure in their blind way that I'll take care of everything and that despite this, I still can. I hope they are right, but I don't think that they are._

_Chakotay would have me believe that it doesn't matter. His faith is the blindest of anyone's. Sometimes I feel that it's a wonder he's still with me . . . that he didn't give up long ago. He says it doesn't matter, that I did the best I could and that's all we can hope for. Apparently, my best is not good enough, even though we did end up home finally._

_It's hard to tell who really misses those days. Chakotay certainly does, Tuvok lacks the capacity to feel it properly, Tom doesn't very much, B'Elanna hops the fence, Harry can't seem to believe it and Seven can't make up her mind - if she has, she hasn't told me about it. I miss it, or at least some parts of it. It was such a short time - we had barely said our hellos - yet maybe it only seems that way._

_They think I'll figure everything out. They think that I'll have some brilliant insight sometime soon and it will all come together. I wish I could share that faith, but it's impossible because I know they're wrong. This isn't solvable this instant. Maybe one day it will sort itself out, but not now. Things like this have always given me headaches, and this certainly does. I never even realized until I was told. It seemed so perfect, so real. Was it my fault that it's all ruined? Maybe not. Even _he_ said that he couldn't stop it completely, so how can I think that I had the capacity to change anything?_

_I am still their Captain, and I'll play the part until it feels right again and I can make this right. And Chakotay insists that it doesn't matter, but he's one of the people who misses it._

**_Months earlier . . ._**

  
  


They were still Starfleet issue sheets, but it was definitely a whole different thing. Maybe it was the real, bona fide, planetary gravity that made her so pleasantly exhausted, perhaps it was the endless hours of the debriefing process, maybe it was wading through the over-zealous media . . . but a bed had never felt so good. She fell into it gratefully, barely noticing how Spartan her accommodations were as compared to her quarters on the ship. Your standard Earthside Starfleet quarters were not known for their luxury, even if one was a homecoming hero.

Kathryn Janeway rolled over, staring at the ceiling. _Hero my ass_, she thought sourly. That was the media talking. Hero? Only until the debriefing panel got their well-powdered noses into the _deep_ dirt, then the hero label would suffer a hit. She'd never noticed how very prissy some officials were. Was that just a recent development? Maybe seven-odd years of flying by the seat of her pants had made her forget about the niceties of Headquarters protocol, politics and the general ass-kissing that most captains kept themselves away from out in space.

Not that she minded being welcomed home that much, but the officers she had met lately had been so diffident that she wondered if they'd worked their way up through the same ranks she had. Polite was one thing, but some of these people well nigh _grovelled_. She didn't like it at all. She'd take their brown-nosing only if it wasn't directed at _her_. What did she look like, the bloody Council Chair? Despite seven years, by rights she was a newly commissioned captain.

It wasn't like she'd pulled it off all by herself. Weren't there nearly one hundred and fifty _other_ people who deserved praise? They deserved that at least, if not promotion through two ranks. She tried to deflect some of the attention - most notably onto Chakotay - but he had proven himself to be a slippery character where the spotlight was concerned. He had said before that he didn't like getting up in front of crowds. 

Turncoat. It shouldn't matter. He was supposed to take the bullet if she told him to.

She allowed that to add to the little seed of resentment that had been growing in her for some time now. The Captain didn't examine it too closely; she knew what it was about. It was about that label of turncoat, and what else a perceived betrayal could mean if viewed in the right light. It was about unspoken promises and silent conversations. It was about guilt, fear and "parameters." 

She yawned. It had really been a tiring day. No time for coffee at all. That was the first luxury of home she had indulged in - real, brewed coffee. Not replicated, not made by suspect Talaxians who felt the need to make everything strong enough to stun a blood-frenzied Klingon warrior. Real coffee.

She wondered drowsily how Neelix was faring. She should really check up with Communications and make sure they set up a link. He was probably climbing the walls with worry after losing Voyager's signal. Neelix had always been a phenomenal worrier. Yes, she'd have to attend to that . . .

The door beeped, jolting her out of her semi-asleep state. She made a face. She supposed it was her fault for not putting a do-not-disturb on the door. Wait a minute. She had. Who was ignoring that? 

She pulled herself off of the bed with a groan. Her eyelids felt leaden, and her legs seemed to be in a similar state. Exhaustion ceased to be pleasant as she made her way out of the small sleeping area and into the equally small living area. When she was within a metre of the door, she stopped.

"Who is it?" she demanded.

_"Chakotay_," the reply came through the door.

She scrubbed a hand across her eyes, back-pedalling and sitting heavily in one of the chairs. She was in her nightgown, but what the hell. "All right. Come in then."

The door opened presently to admit him. He looked tired in his own right, and he carried a padd in his hand. If it involved anything she had to look into or work on at that moment, she was going to clock him - whether it was wrong to shoot the messenger or not.

"This had better be good," she warned him, extending her hand as he passed the padd to her.

"Well, I was wondering which was safer," he answered, eyeing her with slight amusement. "Bringing it to you now, and having you kill me for waking you - or bringing it tomorrow morning and having you kill me for not bringing it now. I figured maybe I stood a better chance right now."

She made a small face at him, perusing the padd. It was a letter from Vulcan, more specifically from Tuvok, saying that he was fully cured of his illness and was presently reporting back to Earth for his own debriefing. If she didn't know he would ignore it, she'd send him a note back and tell him to forgo the visit. He wouldn't acknowledge it, and he was more patient than she was anyhow. Let him sit through the interminable process if he was stupid enough to want to.

She yawned openly, forgetting to cover her mouth. "Well, at least it's good news. You get away with it this time, Chakotay. You're lucky it's not debriefing work. I have written and presented enough _post factum, post rem_ reports to fill a library, and I am not in the mood to do any more. It's ridiculous."

He smiled slightly. "So you noticed?"

"Oh, ha, ha, Commander. You have to do as many as I do, so I don't see why you're so chipper."

He made a dubious sound. "Do I look 'chipper' to you?" He didn't, in point of fact. He looked as exhausted as she felt, more lines to his expression than usual. "I'm only in slightly better shape than you are, and that's only because I did get time to grab a coffee today."

"Hmm. Picked up my bad habits, I see."

Chakotay shrugged. "It could be worse. You could have been hard into synthehol or something. Worse yet, the real stuff."

She blinked slowly, knowing she was going to fall asleep right then and there if she didn't move. "How do you know I wasn't? I'm too tired to talk right now, Chakotay. Would you please go away?"

He laughed wearily. "Kicking me out already?"

"Yes. Get lost."

Turning, he took a few steps toward the door. "Good night, Captain."

She was already asleep curled up in the chair, the padd having dropped from her nerveless hand to the floor.

It only took a short moment from then on for her to wake up again, because her dangling arm began to ache. She sat up and blinked, looking about with narrowed eyes, thoughts muzzy with sleep. 

Sighing, she arranged herself a little more comfortably on the couch and . . . couch? Wasn't she in a chair? It didn't matter, she was just tired, she supposed. 

It dawned on her that Chakotay had left without leading her into an argument about sleeping in the ready room. She really wasn't supposed to fall asleep there, and the couch was uncomfortable. The Captain always woke up with stiff muscles after a night in her ready room, and her First Officer knew it and tried to fend of her bad mood before it occurred. But he hadn't said anything about it. . . .

This time, she did wake up. Of course he hadn't said anything, she wasn't _in_ the ready room. She supposed she must be truly exhausted, her mind wasn't working properly. Maybe it was a caffeine problem, since she hadn't had any.

Looking around, her thoughts ground to an abrupt halt.

She _was_ in her ready room. On the couch by the view port.

_No, I'm not, I'm in that barely-upholstered chair in my quarters at Starfleet Residence. I'm dreaming. Voyager's come to haunt me._

__But she could have sworn in the same breath that she was there. She could feel the slight roughness of the couch cushions under her hands, see the winking stars outside the view port, smell the stale coffee in the cold cup on the table before her. 

It _was_ her ready room. The Captain knew her subconscious imagination wasn't this good. It was never so clear, and dreams - to her knowledge - rarely involved smells. At least hers didn't, and right now she could smell the flowers on the coffee table quite well.

The vision wavered for a moment like she was dizzy, and suddenly seemed almost to shatter. She jumped in surprise and found herself in her dim Residence quarters.

She was unsure if she had just woken up or not. When she woke up from dreams, it was often because she was startled by something therein and had jumped. She was so tired, she must have mistaken herself. She had just woken up from a vivid dream.

A dream in which nothing had happened, but she couldn't have been at it for long, it was only 2300 hours. Only. She had woken - been woken - at 0530 that morning. Only 2300 indeed. Damned debriefing schedule. What was up for tomorrow? Were they still picking Seven's brain? Starfleet Intelligence had an interest in the Borg that was positively unwholesome.

Stiffly, she pulled herself out of the chair and made her way to the darkened bedroom, swearing when she stubbed her toe on the night stand. Falling in with a groan, she realized that when one was truly tired, even Starfleet sheets were comfortable. She'd noticed that often, over the years . . . when she hadn't been plagued by insomnia.

For the present, insomnia escaped her and she slept deeply, unaware that someone was watching her.

_To be continued . . ._

_***_


	2. Told Twice

Disclaimer: I do not own it, but I'll still take liberties with it if I want. I even made up a little thing about the Res. Comm system, because I wanted to. So, HA! Paramount doesn't have dibs on all of it.

  
  


_Chapter Two_

_"Told Twice"_

  
  


"Morning, Captain. I hate to say it, but you look like shit."

"Good morning to you too, Tom. Obviously you don't hate to say it that much."

Minus the smart-ass comment, Chakotay had to agree. She didn't look like the night's sleep had done her any good at all, and worse yet, she was probably compounding the problem with a large mug of coffee. The shadows under her eyes were deep, and he could tell she was not looking forward to the day's business. Rehashing every first contact they'd made in seven years wasn't his idea of a good time either, and the panel of officers they faced to rehash it was also not the best of company.

Paris had dubbed it the Inquisition.

It was pretty close, barring that fact that there were no thumbscrews or burnings involved.

Chakotay fell into step beside the Captain, casting the Lieutenant an oblique glance as the three of them made their way to the cafeteria for breakfast. Tom seemed to be able to take the long debriefing in stride, even with a new baby to care for. He didn't look as tired as the Captain - indeed he looked well rested in comparison. Chakotay was suspicious about that. One of two things may have been occurring - a) Tom wasn't helping B'Elanna with Miral or b) he tried to help out, but B'Elanna was too picky about his baby-care methods, crabbed about them and thus chased him off. 

Even though his natural impulse was to suspect Tom of wrongdoing, Chakotay admitted that the latter was more plausible. Once B'Elanna Torres staked her claim to things, she wouldn't tolerate any interference. She had barely endured Engineering crew at times, and that was about an _engine._

"Well, I didn't think you'd want me to lie," Tom replied, a look of vapid innocence in his eyes. Feigned, of course.

She cast a long-suffering look at him. "So how's life in Family Quarters?" she asked with deliberate blandness.

"Scary as Hell, but I'll survive," he said, tugging at the collar of his uniform turtleneck.

"Shirt bothering you?" Her voice dripped malicious amusement. Kathryn was finding something funny about Tom Paris this morning, and Chakotay looked to see what. 

Tom looked baffled by her comment, turning his gaze from the near empty corridor to her and back again, frowning.

Chakotay sighed, and decided to spare the pilot the suspense. "Tom, you're wearing B'Elanna's shirt."

He jerked, looking at them incredulously. "I am _not_," he breathed, sounding almost horrified. He reached up towards the collar, fingers contacting the solid bar of the rank insignia instead of his own pips. "Damn, I am."

The Captain made a noise that was not unlike a muffled laugh. "So I'll ask again, Mr. Paris," she said. "How's life in Family Quarters?"

"I'll say it again, scary. Downright dangerous."

She shook her head, laughing. "I think we'll just leave it there."

He frowned in consternation, touching the collar again. "It's hard to tell which shirt you're grabbing when you're leaving in fear for your life. I think she was going to start breaking bones. Coming from her, I appreciate the sentiment, but it's hard to focus when you're afraid your wife's going to show up somewhere in the middle of the day and jump you."

"Mr. Paris, I do not want to know," the Captain stated, taking a drink of her coffee.

"So I take it the shirt incident occurred after you left," Chakotay stated, watching the Captain blush.

The Lieutenant snorted, nodding. "Closet. Dark one. She's got this thing about small dark spaces. I'd go and trade her shirts if I didn't think she'd take it the wrong way and try that stunt again. I've got work to do, and so does she."

Kathryn's face was turning a shade redder than her hair.

Paris guffawed. "So are we done embarrassing the Captain?"

Chakotay nodded, grinning. "I believe so, yes. She can take it from here."

"I should have gotten rid of you two a long time ago," she muttered.

Tom gazed around the hall. It was still quite empty, despite the fact that they were nearing the cafeteria and it was breakfast hour. "You won't have to put up with us for much longer. Yeah, so, where is everyone? We've usually got a fair-sized group by now."

The Captain shrugged. "Harry had something he had to do in the city this morning, as I understand."

Tom snorted. "Yeah. Get his mother surgically removed from his arm. She just won't leave. I think she believes he got himself lost just to spite her or something. B'Elanna's down in the creche bothering the child care people about Miral's breakfast. Where's Seven?"

"She decided she didn't need breakfast today, and went back to the Intelligence officers before they asked her to," Chakotay supplied a little ruefully.

The Captain shook her head, pausing for the cafeteria doors to open. "She should stop doing that. She's going to give them the impression that she goes there willingly. How long have they commandeered her for today?"

"The whole thing, if they were allowed. She'd have the exobios all over her too if the Doctor didn't fend them off so skilfully. They're a disgusting bunch sometimes, if you ask me."

"You're biassed," Kathryn stated, a slight shadow crossing her expression.

"So are you."

"Touché." That was a safe reply. He had been momentarily afraid that she might ask what it was he thought she was biassed about.

Momentarily, the Captain wavered, almost as if she was about to fall. Reflexively, Chakotay reached out and grasped her arm, steadying her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She shook him off, stepping the door. "Fine," she replied, though looking a little pained as they entered the large, almost cavernous room.

The cafeteria proper at least contained people, and like every other day before the entering Voyager crew members received a quick, curious glance from almost every pair of eyes there. Most of the crew - barring personnel who couldn't add much to the debriefing - was placed in Residence quarters out of necessity. Most of the other Starfleet personnel who were there were either being debriefed as they themselves were, awaiting assignment, possessed no contacts on Earth but took furlough there anyhow or they were the type who had been drafted, so to speak. The Federation did not tolerate people who would not apply themselves to an education or trade, so they put slackers into service. A bad practice in some cases, but such were rarely given sensitive tasks unless they proved they were up to it.

Needless to say, Voyager was a novelty, and a novelty that was somehow not losing its appeal. The whole situation was ripe for stupid questions, and many a person in Residence had already received the patented Janeway Death Glare. Chakotay would sympathise with them in any other case, but people seemed remarkably dense sometimes.

Everyone was seeing some of that. Seven had turned her "get the hell away from me" look into something that left one wondering if one's continued good health was a sure thing. Chakotay was just thankful she never turned that glare on him. That look had vestiges of the Captain's influence in it, and Kathryn could turn a look into a threat of violence so easily that he wondered if it beared teaching.

On this train of thought, Chakotay's eyes scanned the room for a particular presence. One Lieutenant Commander Jake Talbot, a man who would give James T. Kirk pause if they ever met, was one of the more obtuse individuals in Starfleet. It was a blinding miracle that the man had achieved the rank he had. 

Chakotay was certain that Talbot had probably taken a run at every female in Starfleet who was Earthside at the moment. He was the sort of individual who made Chakotay want to do some constructive bone breaking. Talbot even shocked Tom, and at subsequently been hit in the face by the pilot for a comment - most likely about B'Elanna - that Chakotay wasn't sure he wanted to hear repeated.

What capped it was that the man did not stop at harassing his subordinates. In a moment of pure stupidity, he had made a pass at both the Captain and Seven in the same breath, as the two in question were discussing something. Chakotay hadn't even felt the need to get belligerent about it at the time (he had later) because Talbot was all but eviscerated on the spot by two sets of glaring blue eyes and a few choice words from the Captain.

To hear tell, he was never the same lecher again. The rumour mill of Residence was hundreds of times more voracious than Voyager's ever was.

It was a wonder he himself wasn't dead several times over because of those two. Paris had also witnessed Talbot's exchange with them, had taken a good look at the fellow and had looked heavenward muttering something to the effect of "Lord, have mercy on his soul."

At the moment, the Captain wore her morning glare as she thumped unceremoniously onto a chair at an empty table. Whatever dignified reserve she showed at official functions was not apparent just then, had she didn't appear to give a damn, even as Tom gave her a strange look as he made his way to the replicators.

Chakotay tapped her shoulder to get her attention, and she looked up at him glassily.

"Um?" she inquired.

"Want anything?" he asked, indicating the replicators.

"Double espresso?" She gestured with her now-empty mug.

"I don't think that'd be good for you. Is that your first or second coffee?"

She thought about that for a second. "Third."

"Good grief, Kathryn, you'll kill yourself," he stated, trying to put some censure into it.

She yawned. "I'm not dead yet, though I feel like I'm nearly there. I'm making up for yesterday. I didn't have coffee yesterday."

"You're going to give yourself an overdose," he said, shaking his head.

"Stop pestering me. It takes one hundred cups of coffee in one day to kill a person . . . or something . . . and I'm not to that point yet. And I'm not hungry, so don't start bothering me about breakfast either. If I get hungry, I'll eat."

"No, you won't."

She glared at him. "Go get yourself something."

"Actually, I'm not too hungry either," he said, sitting in the chair next to her.

"I'm exempt, you are not and you can't guilt me into anything, so stop it. I-" She stopped abruptly, eyes going rather wide and unfocused. She seemed to look right through him "The bridge!" she choked. Her hands began to shake. "The bridge, Chakotay."

"Kathryn? Are you all right?" he asked, alarmed. She couldn't see him, or at least it looked like she couldn't. She turned her head, looking but not seeing anything in the room. He took her by the arms and shook her. The bridge? Some sort of waking dream? It was not unheard of, and maybe her fatigue was contributing to- "Captain! Look at me," he insisted, shaking her.

For a brief moment she seemed to flicker, like a malfunctioning hologram, yet it was more like she was fading than anything else. He could see almost straight through her, but abruptly she became solid again, stared at him in confusion, and slumped forward -seemingly unconscious.

There was a clatter - a falling tray - and Paris seemed almost to bound right over several tables in his haste. He happened to be carrying a medical tricorder, and almost wrenched it from its holder at his belt.

"What happened?" he demanded, running the scanner over the Captain as Chakotay tried to prevent her falling from the seat. Tom paled, staring at the readings. "Holy shit. It looks like she's been running a Klingon marathon."

"Well, she _did_ seem exhausted," Chakotay muttered. Suddenly he gave in to his panic at seeing her collapse so suddenly. It was the subject of many of his nightmares, her illness, her injury, her death. . . .

"Not _that_ exhausted. That's almost literally _dead_ tired. We've got to get her to the infirmary. I can't deal with this here. Hell, I can't deal with it there. Where's the Doc?"

"I don't know," he replied woodenly, gathering his Captain's inert form into his arms. He had never carried her in such a way before, but somehow he perceived that she must be lighter than usual. Kathryn Janeway looked to be a featherweight at the best of times, but surely there was more to her than this? He cradled her carefully, irrationally afraid that he might break her.

Tom tapped his comm badge. "Lieutenant Paris to Residence Router Two, put a line through to Voyager's EMH." Starfleet Headquarters were vast, and comm traffic was heavy. Several computers were required to sort out the signals, and to direct them to the proper people.

_"Acknowledged,"_ came the computer's expressionless female voice.

"Doc, you there?" Paris demanded, beckoning for Chakotay to follow him.

_"I am, Mr. Paris. Is something the matter?"_

__"The Captain just collapsed, the Commander and I are taking her to the Res. infirmary. Where are you?"

_"I will be there as soon as I can. Doctor out."_

__Tom rolled his eyes. "He didn't answer me. C'mon, Chakotay. Let's get out of here before we get surrounded by the Curious Mob here."

He didn't need to be told twice.

  
  


_To be continued . . ._

***__


	3. Security

Disclaimer: Honestly, it's not mine!

  
  


_Chapter Three_

_"Security"_

  
  


__The Captain had noted before, or rather warned, that many Starfleet departments would be interested in her knowledge -both that of the Borg and of other Delta Quadrant species. Intelligence, Command, Medical . . . even the Academy at a point had shown at least passing interest. Enduring such a spotlight was not Seven's forte, even if the true pressure was actually on the Captain herself. Seven of Nine would not smile for the imagers, and was thus deemed non-photogenic. Perhaps the Captain would to well to acquire that label for herself.

Everyone's schedule seemed busy, and for some reason no great bulk of the debriefing process ever seemed to be completed. For the moment, she was not included in the general proceeding, because they had not yet reached a point in Voyager's sojourn where she could add much - at least from a crew member's perspective. They last time she had spoken with Chakotay, he had said that they were still discussing the Kazon species, as well as shipboard occurrences at that time.

It seemed to be an inefficient process, to say the least. The root of the opinion bothered her slightly, but some part of her still contended that verbal communication was a poor way to exchange information. However, it was preferable to some other methods that she was acquainted with, if not as expeditious.

She was conscious of the fact that her interaction skills needed refinement. Seven was unaccustomed to dealing with people she did not recognize by sight and name immediately. She had admitted before that the prospect of a planet full of Humans was intimidating, and that had not changed. Many of the people she knew from Voyager were no longer present at the Starfleet compound.

Most of the senior crew - those she was closest to - was still present, but even contact with them was limited. She saw the most of Chakotay, because he sought her out, and of the Doctor, whom she still reported to for check ups every other day. The Captain was hard to find in some cases, but they had spoken yesterday. She had not seen Ensign Kim or Lieutenants Paris and Torres for several days, nor Commander Tuvok for weeks. Naomi Wildman had written a letter, but they had not seen each other since their respective first days on Earth. Icheb, as was promised to him by the Captain, was now enrolled at Starfleet Academy for his first term and was quite busy.

Voyager was a curiosity to many, and she herself seemed no less an anomaly. Seven of Nine was not an expert at reading facial expressions, but she knew the fish-eye when she saw it. Some people barely contained their malice, despite the fact that she looked like no drone that had ever walked the face of any planet. The implants visible on her face and left hand marked her one apart, and she didn't like the feeling.

For the first two weeks on Earth, the Captain, the Doctor and Chakotay had watched very closely for any sign that she was not adapting to life among daily strangers. Even Lieutenant Paris had shown an unwillingness to "feed her to the mob" as he termed it, and Ensign Kim had frequently directed concerned frowns at her. It had bothered her until it had ceased. She found herself missing that security - knowing that there were several people ready to leap into action should she appear to be in trouble. Not that they would be any less ready if she complained about something . . . but she had not seen anyone she knew since earlier that morning, a five-second exchange with Chakotay over where she was going.

Unfortunately, she still had to school herself not to call him Commander under all circumstances, like she always had. He professed disinterest in his designation, telling her to call him whatever felt right, but she knew that his comment was not the total truth. More likely it was a set response . . . a "safe answer" so to speak. In fact, when she called him by his name rather than his title, it seemed almost to bother him. Seven had yet to fathom why, and didn't think it was important enough to ask about.

Yet more inexplicably, the Captain seemed to take exception to odd things. She rarely met Seven's eyes when Chakotay was in the same room with them, and seemed mildly uncomfortable when his formal address was not used. It was part of what gave Seven pause about what to do. It was likely that she was violating some unspoken etiquette that neither of them was willing to correct her on. Along with her basic interaction skills, she lacked social grace . . . even with people she knew, it seemed. Perhaps she would speak with the Doctor about it.

She was supposed to check in with the Doctor this morning for a maintenance check. Now, more than ever, he was worried about her state of repair or lack thereof. Starfleet Command had hemmed a little about allowing her to install _any_ Borg paraphernalia in their buildings, even if that only included a singular alcove in her allotted quarters. Its necessity was heatedly advocated by the Doctor, and its movement and installation from Voyager was allowed. The Doctor described the officers who had questioned the situation as paranoid. Seven investigated the logic of their concerns and found them valid. They did not know her, and her early record on Voyager was less than impressive. Why wouldn't they be apprehensive about Borg technology linked the Starfleet Residence's power and computer systems?

On the Human side of it, she was a little offended by their need to quibble about her necessities. Her sleeping arrangements were her own business, not Starfleet Command's. Yet the exoengineers monitored her use of the apparatus extensively. Paranoia, as the Doctor had said, perhaps ignorance.

Abruptly, Seven paused, coming to a complete halt in the middle of the corridor, and startling a young officer who rounded the corner and nearly bumped into her. She recognized him fleetingly. She recognized many people in the Intelligence headquarters. He was not why she had paused.

For an instant, it had seemed that she was in Cargo Bay Two. That was impossible, but her ocular implant had recorded it, and when she thought about it the image replayed with perfect clarity. A malfunction? Lack of repair indeed. Similar things had happened before, like in the nebula . . . the implant had not differentiated between reality and her hallucinations then. Perhaps a daydream? She dreamed when she regenerated, and the Doctor had warned her that her concentration might begin to slip after long periods of time - a natural reaction to boredom.

She was unsure. It was hard to conclude something when one had little or no basis of comparison. Why the Cargo Bay? Seven was not sure she wanted to experience what people called "nostalgia" - it seemed to be a fruitless brain function, a waste of one's time.

"Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One. That's an awfully long title for just one person. The Borg always were verbose."

She whirled. The voice was familiar, and if she recalled correctly, its presence denoted a need for a certain amount of caution. She schooled her expression even more than it already was, and gazed at the newcomer. "Verbosity is sometimes a by-product of precision. What do you want?" she demanded, mentally preparing herself to call security.

Q rolled his eyes, tenting his fingers absently. He stood about a metre away from her, and gave her a brazen once-over. "I see Kathy impressed her prejudices well. I'm just here to give everyone my regards."

"I do not believe you," Seven stated. "However, if that is your purpose, I suggest you go to the Captain . . . though I do not believe she will be pleased by your presence."

"I'm wounded!" he cried, pressing his hands to his chest dramatically, and then letting them fall. "Besides, Kathy's unconscious right now, and it would be a pain on both our parts to wake her up."

Seven tried not to look surprised, but only succeeded half way. "What?"

"Oh, you heard me," Q said, flipping a hand at her. He wore a Starfleet uniform as per usual, and four pips. "Don't pretend that your memory is less exact than it is. The Borg are good at data-storage, if nothing else."

She was not going to dignify that with a reply. "What did you do to the Captain?"

His expression was devoid of duplicity, for once. "I didn't do anything! Honestly, do you really believe I'd hurt Kathy? I _like_ Kathy, and I don't hurt people I like. Okay, I mess with their heads a little . . . Someone else did that to her, and I'm going to take it up with time right after I am done here. How are _you_ feeling, Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One?"

"It is possible to abbreviate my designation, I suggest you try it. Why are you concerned about _my_ well-being?"

Seven did not enjoy being surprised by people, mortal or otherwise. She didn't have the experience at dealing with Q than some others had. She was very conscious of the fact that this individual was responsible for the first contact of Humans with the Borg, and thus almost directly accountable for her own assimilation. Her parents would not have gone to study the Borg if their existence was unknown, after all. There was a momentary awareness of enmity between them, but for her part she ignored it.

She was consciously attempting to freeze him out, but it did not seem to phase him in the least. It discomfited her to know that he was in fact omniscient, and was probably privy to her every thought if he so directed his attention. Conversely, the entire Q Continuum confounded the Collective, a thing she found she could bear with great fortitude.

"Don't hedge, Seven. You'd sleep very easily if I went and tied every Borg transwarp corridor in the galaxy into one big complex knot and left it like that." He was demonstrating the very aspect she was uncomfortable with. Mind reading made her uncomfortable in a particular way. He continued anyhow. "And I could, but the Borg are not the type to toy with. They just do not have a sense of humour. Very boring. Now, answer my question, please." 

"Answer mine," she countered.

"Oho, yes. Kathy got to you, I can tell. Unfortunate. What makes you think I'll tell you?"

Seven approximated a shrug. "I hazard that it would not be the goodness of your heart."

"I don't _have_ a heart, Seven, I don't need one. I've also concluded that you are quite well, and as caustic as only the _truly_ self-assured can be. You'd make a wonderful Q. Your sense of superiority is formidable. So how's Chuckles?" he asked with no attempt to disguise his rancour.

Surprisingly, she took immediate exception to that nickname. "I am sure you already know, so why waste time answering?"

Q lifted an eyebrow in a gesture almost like her own. "That really was a fast one you pulled. I didn't know you had it in you."

"What was?"

"That feat of emotional rug-pulling, of course! Even Picard's pet android has a better sense of delicacy than you do. You have all the tact of a block of proverbial wood. Don't you get what I mean?" He obviously was putting great meaning into it, but whatever it was that he was rambling about escaped her for the present.

"No. I do not."

"Well, you're hopeless. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Of what did you warn me?" She was not in the mood for his game playing. She wanted to know why he was there. Seven was getting annoyed.

"Oh, never mind, I'm going to check in on Kathy. I'm very angry about what happened you know, so don't blame me. I'm most of the reason you're even here!" He backpedalled slightly, giving evidence that he was in fact leaving. "And by the way, don't tell anyone I was here. I'm in enough trouble already without having the mortals rat me out."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"Enjoy the ball, Cinderella," he called over his shoulder as he walked away. "I think the clock's about to strike twelve, if that means anything to you."

And as abruptly as he had arrived, he disappeared.

  
  


_To Be Continued . . ._

_***_


End file.
